Page 189 of Filthy Promises

Which is both highly romantic and deeply disturbing when I think about it too hard.

“You look beautiful.”

I jump at the sound of Vince’s voice, close to my ear. He’s materialized beside me, a glass of water in one hand and that possessive gleam in his eyes that still makes my knees weak, despite everything.

“I look terrified,” I correct as I accept the water with a nod of thanks. “Which is the appropriate response when your living room is suddenly full of people who probably know seventeen different ways to dispose of a body.”

Vince’s lips twitch with what might be amusement. “Only twelve, generally speaking. The other five methods are considered outdated.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.” He shifts, his body angling protectively in front of mine as his eyes scan the room. “Most of these people won’t hurt you. The ones who might wouldn’t dare try under my roof.”

“That’s comforting.”

“It should be.” His hand brushes mine, the briefest touch. “I’ve never lied about my ability to protect you.”

No, just about literally everything else.

But I swallow that retort. We’ve been over this ground exhaustively in the two weeks since I agreed to this arrangement. Bitterness won’t help either of us.

“So who are all these people?” I ask instead, tracking a particularly grim-faced older man with a scar that bisects his clouded left eye.

“The inner circle and their families.” Vince follows my gaze. “That’s Yannik Sokolov. One of my father’s oldest allies. The woman with him is his third wife, Yelena.”

I nod, trying to commit the names to memory. There will be a test later, I’m sure. There’s always a test with Vince.

“And the blonde by the fireplace? The one who looks like she’s calculating how many rose petals she could stuff down my throat?”

Vince sighs. “Katerina Volkov. Mikhail’s niece.”

“Oh, duh. I remember.” The second bride candidate. The one who was supposed to be a suitable match. “She doesn’t seem pleased about recent developments.”

“Her uncle is furious I chose you instead of her.” His voice is matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather rather than familial rage. “The alliance would have been… convenient.”

“For the Bratva,” I fill in. “Not so much for your heart.”

His eyes flicker with something—surprise, maybe, that I would acknowledge any lingering emotional component to our complicated relationship. “Something like that.”

A server approaches with a tray of champagne flutes. Vince waves him off before I can even speak. “Ms. St. Clair isn’t drinking,” he says firmly.

“The baby,” I explain, hand drifting to my still-small bump.

The server’s face lights up with genuine warmth. “Ah, of course! Congratulations! The first Akopov heir of a new generation. A blessing indeed.”

He bustles away before I can respond, leaving me stunned by this first display of authentic happiness for our news.

“Not everyone here hates me,” I murmur, surprised.

“Most don’t hate you at all,” Vince replies. “They simply don’t know what to make of you yet. A pregnant American with no family connections, suddenly engaged to the heir apparent?” His mouth curves. “You’ve disrupted decades of carefully laid plans.”

“Story of my life. Professional plan-disrupter.”

This time, he does smile. I pretend I’m not memorizing how pure it looks on him.

“Vince.” A deep voice interrupts our moment.

I look up to find Arkady approaching.

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